would be bursting into green beauty; but to me, at that period of
my life, the sweet-smelling hawthorn, the golden-fingered laburnum,
and the full, rich blossom of an apple orchard were unknown
delights. I had never yet seen a real tree, and our highest bushes
in Pomona reached scarcely to my shoulder. The land was all gray
and barren.

At the old mill of Cairston I was joined by Robbie Rosson, and,
instead of continuing by the road, we cut across country, climbing
the stone dykes and jumping over the gurgling streams. A walk of
three miles brought us to Crua Breck, a small farmhouse on the
hillside of the same name, overlooking the Pentland Firth. The
ridge tiles of this house ran precisely north and south, and it was
a superstition amongst us that this same ridge had the power of
deciding whether the north wind should blow towards the German
Ocean or the Atlantic; just as King Eric of Orkney could, in his
time, change the direction of the winds by altering the position of
his cap.

Crua Breck was at least a mile from any other house--unless,
indeed, the ruined and tenantless cottage of Inganess merited the
name. Carver Kinlay had lived there as long as I could remember;
but the fact that the fisher folks often spoke of him as a "ferry
jumper" implied that he was still regarded as a foreigner on
Orcadian soil.

I had never been inside the Crua Breck house, nor, I may say, did I
much covet a visit there, for the inmates of the farm were not
distinguished for their friendliness or hospitality, and, with the
one exception of Thora, whom I always regarded with a sense of